Skinny Jeans
by dellums
Summary: Gilbert gets the best of Matthew's appalling sense of fashion by coercing him into a pair of purple skinny jeans. Unfortunately for Matt, he as an ulterior motive. Unfortunately for Gil, Canadians are stubborn.. I'm embarrassed that I wrote this. PruCan.


**Author's Notes:**

I don't know _why_ I even bother to write anymore because all my one-shots just seem to be getting dumber and dumber as I go on, but. I've had this one written for _quite_ a while (which is why the _Harry Potter_ reference is not quite up-to-date...) and I felt a little bad about not writing anything for APH for a bit, so... I hope this doesn't leave you just very, very confused, and that you actually enjoy it, to some degree c:

* * *

><p><strong>Skinny Jeans.<strong>

Matthew wasn't one for following fashion trends. He _could_, however, appreciate a sense of style; it's not like he'd never laid eyes on Lady Gaga before or anything. Heaven knows her dress of meat had triggered something in his mind that seemed to scream and blink **mentally unstable **at him, but her other outfits, for the most part, were most certainly not tasteless. Matt liked to look at things with an artistic eye, even though he hadn't picked up a pencil with the intention of drawing since third grade, and hadn't looked through the lens of a camera since he'd taken that semester-long photo class in high school for extra credits.

But still.

The point was, he may not follow fashion, but he pretty much understood it. Sometimes. Okay, not really at all, honestly.

Even still! So what if he still wore too-big jeans and too-big sweatshirts and too-big, floppy flannel shirts and untied, beat-up, red Converse? Nobody seemed to have a problem with his sense of style (or lack thereof) before, so what was the point in changing anyway?

* * *

><p>"Hey, Matt, put these on," Gilbert insisted as he strutted in through the front door, looking twenty-eight different kinds of regal. Tossing something purple and floppy at his blond boyfriend, he set his other shopping bags (his decidedly un<em>manly<em> amount of shopping bags, really) down, satisfied.

Raising an eyebrow and putting aside his book, Matthew peeled the offensive projectile off his face and held it up. "... Pants?"

"Damn skippy, princess," he quipped back cheerfully, settling on the creaky, out-of-place, floral-printed couch on the cushion next to Matt. He slung an arm around the back and grinned. "Go, go."

"Uh. No, no?"

Rolling his eyes, Gilbert turned and fixed the blond with a steady, bloodred gaze. "Matthew." Ohh, that _voice_. If Matthew'd had any ovaries, they'd have been long gone at that point. But – he kept it cool on the outside and listened as Gil continued with, "Please. For me. I don't ask a lot of you–"

"Ha."

"– and it would really mean the world to me if you would just go change." He paused to think, and dropped a shrug. "Or you could do it right here. You'd get no complaints from me."

Matthew calmly gave him a blank, unamused violet stare from behind his glasses.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, Gilbert shifted. "So, is that a yes, or...?"

"No." He slowly folded the absurd purple jeans and set them down on the other's lap, smiling. "Enjoy." And he reached for his book again. (He was trying to get through all the _Harry Potter_ books again before the last movie debuted, and Gil had interrupted him during a particularly interesting scene in which Hermione insisted that one most definitely could _not_ apparate or disapparate on Hogwarts grounds).

"But, _Ma_tthew. I'm just trying to help you! What do you not understand?"

Sighing, he put down his copy of _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ once more and threw his hands up in the air. "With _what_? Gilbert? What on earth will forcing me into a pair of purple jeans achieve? And why purple, anyway?"

"I thought the color would bring out your eyes," he admitted, somewhat bashfully. "And I was just thinking that since you always wear these huge, lumberjack clothes, that it was time for, you know. A wardrobe change or something."

"I am a free spirit," Matthew sniffed, turning away a bit. "You cannot change me."

"... How dramatic. And slightly poetic." Gilbert planted the folded pants neatly on Matthew's leg, holding them there and using his free hand to draw Matt in close by the chin. Once their eyes met, Gilbert pressed a slow, subtle kiss to the blond's pouty lips, drawing out a frustrated groan from Matt. "There's more where that came from if you go put on those damn pants."

Matthew pointed out that usually Gilbert was begging for the exact opposite of Matthew putting clothes _on_, and stated that if he even wanted "more where that came from", well, he _did_ have his own hands and was perfectly capable of most of the same things Gilbert was. "And I still don't understand why these pants are so important to you, in any case."

"They're _skinny jeans_, Matt. _Skinny_. Jeans," Gilbert explained, as if there was some kind of hidden message behind the words, _duh_, and how could Matthew _not_ know that?

"Uh. Okay? So you're saying you want me to squeeze into a pair of ridiculous – don't make that face, they _are_ ridiculous – a pair of ridiculous pants, cut off the circulation in both of my legs, and try to look sexy while I prance around in front of you like Tyra Banks? _And_ bring out the color of my eyes? All at once? Oh, you are asking too much of me, sir."

"Well, you could do without the prancing," Gil muttered, which got a reluctant grin from Matt. "And they're not even that hard to put on. I'll help you if you want."

"No," was the immediate response. "Just... no. I do not want your help." Finally giving in, Matthew gathered up the horrible pants in his arms and stalked off to the bathroom.

* * *

><p><strong>Earlier that day...<strong>

"Just keep asking. He'll say no, like, a million times, but if you just ask him over and over, he'll give up. And eye contact," Alfred remembered, pointing from his own oceanic eyes to Gilbert's crimson ones. "Lots and lots of that. He eats it up. He's just like a chick."

Gilbert handed the cashier his credit card and leaned against the counter as she rang up his items. He raised an eyebrow at Alfred. "How do you know all this? I mean, Matt and I've been dating for _months_ now, but I don't even know his favorite candy or anything."

The blond shrugged it off. "We grew up together, dude. And he likes blue M&Ms."

"But don't all M&Ms taste the same?" Gil took his receipt and shopping bag, and he and Al left the store.

Alfred fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Of course they don't."

"Um.. I'm pretty sure they do. They're just chocolate, covered with some kind of... hard thing. The only difference is the color." They walked through the food court, Alfred's eyes landing on literally each and every hamburger joint.

The American scoffed haughtily. "Do they even _have_ M&Ms on whatever planet you came from?"

"Germany? Uh, yeah. Do you _know_ how much chocolate we have in Germany?"

"Nahh," Alfred responded, waving him off and subtly sliding over to a bright, very yellow McDonald's. "All I know about Germania – "

"Germany."

"What_ever_. All I know about it is that the language scares me and your sense of 'What's In' is awful. I mean, did that Hitler guy ever even look in a mirror and say, 'Vow, vhy do I go out in publeek liek zis'? Because that mustache really is terrible." Alfred didn't even appear to be listening to what he was saying, more focused on arguing with the cashier ("If there's a such thing as a _double_ cheeseburger, I'm pretty sure you can handle making a _quadruple_ cheeseburger, lady").

Gilbert rolled his eyes, and found himself wondering how Matthew spent more than ten minutes around this man without setting his eyes on fire.

* * *

><p>Matthew wanted to set his eyes on fire.<p>

He glanced in the mirror and scowled harder than he has ever scowled before. The Canadian didn't understand the hype about skinny jeans at all, but then, as established earlier, he just didn't **get** fashion. Really, though, he didn't see why it was so unacceptable to wear normal pants.

It had taken him a good five minutes to even start putting them on – he'd originally planned on just sitting there in the bathroom until Gilbert fell asleep, sneaking out, maybe drawing a couple of lewd things on his boyfriend's face with a Sharpie, and then going to Alfred's house to play a few rounds of Halo.

But then... curiosity had gotten the better of him. And he squeezed his way into the horrible things.

It wasn't as hard as he had thought, actually. He'd expected having to take a deep breath and hold it. He'd expected the button to pop off, and the seams to rip with a horrible sound. He'd expected the tightness to squish all of his internal organs out like he was a human-sized tube of Canadian-flavored toothpaste. But really, he'd just pointed his toes and slipped rather … elegantly into the jeans.

He hated how nice they looked. He hated that Gilbert was right. He hated that the stupid jeans actually _did_ compliment his eyes. He just really hated a lot of things right now.

A rather startling knock forced Matthew from his angsting, and Gilbert's voice called in a singsong tone, "You almost done in there, dear?"

The blond grumbled angrily to himself only a second longer before tearing the door open with so much force that Gil, who had been leaning against it on the other side, tumbled forward.

Miraculously, somehow, Gilbert managed to catch himself against the door frame, attempting to look cool and collected. Once stable, he let his eyes trail down to the bottom half of his boyfriend's body and he took a step forward, eyes wide. "Oh, my god, Matthew. _Matthew_!" His arms flailed out at his sides and his mouth opened and closed in incredulity, as if searching for an appropriate collection of pronouns and adjectives to string together.

The other male raised one eyebrow. "... Should I call an ambulance...?"

"Mattie, you look fucking awesome! What even – how the – I can't – _Matthew_!" Gilbert reached out and grabbed Matthew's shoulder, spinning him around.

"Gil, what are you –! … Stop looking at my ass!" the blond said, turning back around and slapping at his boyfriend, who was halfheartedly deflecting him and laughing. Matthew glared and pulled his hands back when Gilbert took hold of his wrists to stop him.

The taller of the two casually let his eyes roam over Matt appreciatively again, smiling. "You really do look awesome, Matt."

"Whatever. I put on your stupid pants. Can I get back to reading now, please?"

Gilbert looked affronted, blinking and starting as Matthew promptly pushed past him and moved to pick up his book. "_What_? You want to _read_? How can you want to _read_? You look so cool and hot and stuff right now; don't you wanna do something a little more... interesting?" A devious grin.

"... Oh, my god. No. No way, Beilschmidt. Not even in your creepy, kinky dreams."

"Whaaaaat? Why not?" the German whined, frowning and on the verge of throwing a fit.

Matthew eyed him skeptically, crossing his arms. "This – the whole reason you made such a big deal about these goddamn pants was because you wanted me to feel _sexy_, isn't it? Ohh, Gilbert, you are a sad, sad man, you know that?"

"Well, _yeah_, I'm sad! My boyfriend looks awesome and he won't even let me... I don't know, _ravish_ him or anything," Gilbert exclaimed, appearing to be only minutes away from stomping his foot like an eight-year-old.

"'_Ravish_', Gilbert? Really? Do you even know what that – You know what? Never mind. I'm not taking these pants off, right after I just agreed to putting them on." Matthew shook his head and plopped soundly back onto the couch, opening his book.

"But –"

"No."

"_Matthew—_"

"No."

* * *

><p>Gilbert was horrified to find that Alfred later took Matthew out shopping, where the Canadian bought copious amounts of skinny jeans and proceeded to wear them any chance that life presented him with, flaunting them and their attractive skinny-ness right in Gilbert's face.<p>

He was also horrified to find that Matthew only changed in the bathroom with the door locked tight from then on.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

What am I doing with my life. (I've never written such a long argument about pants before. This experience has changed me. I'm tearing up a little. Excuse me).


End file.
